Jonny's Monsters
by TerrifyingThings
Summary: John has a run in with someone from his past. Trigger Warnings: Attempted rape, there's murder, it's a bit not good. Mentions of past abuse. I'm shit at summaries.
1. Chapter 1

**Uhhhhm, Hi there! I don't own Sherlock Holmes or anything, but if I did…(;**

**Hope you enjoy this story.**

**Trigger: Mentions of past abuse and rape, attempted rape. **

They were running so fast that John only saw blurs passing by and Sherlock's back in front of him. They were after one of the most dangerous men in London; Sylvester Harper, the monster murdered his wife and three year old son after finding her in bed with a woman, he then went on a killing and raping spree, and started a very successful drug trafficking business. He was responsible for many of their cases and this was one of their only chances at catching the bastard. Suddenly Sherlock stopped, which caused John to run face first into his back.

"He disappeared, John! I swear I almost had him!" and If Sherlock didn't know where he had gone, nobody did. "He's got to be here, somewhere close. You stay here and I'll corner him to you." John was still trying to catch his bloody breath. He nodded his head and watched Sherlock sprint down the alley.

"Well well well, another victim to add to my extensive collection. John Watson, what a nice surprise." A cold voice spoke from the shadows. John tensed, every one of his muscles locked up. He knew that voice, knew it well.

"Sylvester Harper, I assume." John spat out the name like it was poison. The man stepped into John's line of view with a smirk on his face. "Never assume, Johnny. You know what they say about assuming." John's face was twisted in horror as he set eyes on one of the men that haunted his past, Harold Sylva. "Y-You, but you're… you're meant to be-

A sinister laugh bubbled out of Harper's throat and past his dry, cracked lips. "Dead? You know me much better than that, Johnny. Like the name change? I thought of it myself."

The soldier in him told him to stand his ground and fight. The complete terror he felt told him to run, get as far away from Harold Sylva as he could because this fucker was sick, he was twisted, and John knew it from experience. John could see it in his eyes; saw it in the way Sylva moved towards him like a serpent about to strike.

"You can't decide whether or not you want to run or try your luck and attempt to take me down, John." And good God this man was at least 6'6 and around 350 pounds, about 3 times the size of John. He felt the bastard grab him viciously around the throat, dejavu.

"You should have run." He felt a pinch in his arm and looked down to find a syringe lodged in his vein. He swung his head forward, his forehead connecting with Sylva's nose, making a disgusting crunching sound as blood spurted from it.

"I'm starting to think you really missed ol' Harold, Johnny." John slumped against the wall of a building next to them, he couldn't focus, couldn't think of what his symptoms were.

"Morphine, in case you were wondering. I've been informed by your father that you're a doctor, so you probably guessed. You moved away from us, Johnny, how could you do that? I missed you very much, you know. I missed those big, innocent doe eyes, looking up at me with fury." Sylva palmed himself through his jeans, groaning in pleasure over John's horrible past.

John felt like he was going to throw up his dinner, the only thing he'd eaten that day was about to be all over the cement.

"Y-You died. You're not real, you can't be real. I'm hallucinating again." He was helpless, looking up at a monster. This man was the monster in his closet when John was only a boy.

"I went into hiding, settled down with a wife… a son. He reminded me a lot of you, you know." That smirk turned into an unsettling grin and that grin is what finally made John's dinner make its way up and onto the pavement.

"Your own son..you ra… you did things to him too?!" John was livid, truly livid; he had never wanted to kill someone as much as he wanted to kill this bastard.

Harold Sylva had the nerve to look satisfied by John's question. "Your father may have helped a bit, Johnny. We could never replace you though, that tight little hole of yours, it was sorely missed. No need for you to be jealous."

John meant to get up and swing at Sylva, he really did, but somehow he ended up with his face hitting the pavement. Sylva was on him in an instant, straddling John's backside. The sinister cackling rang out into the air and John cringed.

He wouldn't wait for Sylva to use him and be finished; he wouldn't wait for the slapping of skin on skin to cease. This time he would fight, he wasn't that frightened little boy anymore. He wouldn't let this happen again, he couldn't, but if that were the case, why wasn't he moving? Why couldn't he get the message from his brain to his limbs, drugs be damned?

Sylva was ripping his shirt, tearing it to shreds with his knife. "Be a good boy for me, Johnny." Tears leaked from his eyes at the demand. It was happening all over again and he couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. "No, no stop! Don't fucking touch me, you-

A hand clamped over his mouth and hot, revolting breath hissed in his ear. "I'll carve your bloody tongue out, boy. Keep quiet." And just like that John Watson was a frightened little boy again, afraid of the monsters in his closet.

In one last attempt to save himself, he bit down on Harold Sylva's grimy hand, while the vile man was fussing over his bleeding fingers, John bucked and threw him off.

Scrambling to get to his feet and as far away from this nauseating bastard, John took off down the alley where he'd seen Sherlock run. He could hear Sylva screaming at him, demanding that he come back and fight. "You bloody coward! Get back here and finish what you started, Johnny!"

More mad, cackling laughter pierced John's thoughts.

John never stopped though, never turned around, not even as a gunshot rang out and the sinister laugh was silenced. Not even when he heard Lestrade and Donavan pleading with him to slow down, telling him it was over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Again, I still don't own Sherlock. **

**Trigger warnings are the same.**

**Thank you for reading!**

"What the fuck do you mean he's gone?!" Sherlock shouted in Lestrade's face, looking as insane and strung out as the first day he met the DI, except everyone knew Sherlock was clean, and he'd been clean since John moved in.

"He's missing, Sherlock. He took off running, tripping over his own damn feet." Lestrade brought Sherlock to the point where they saw the scuffle between Harper and John, pointed out which direction John went, and Sherlock started deducing immediately.

"Harper and John had a bit of a standoff here; John busted Harper's nose, probably by swinging his head forward. John stumbled back and leaned against this wall, but why? Injury, perhaps. Unwilling drug distribution, more likely."

Sherlock paced up and down the alley, seeing things that nobody else there saw.

"John throws up, possibly because of the drugs. So, John steps forward to swing at him, but the drug, morphine, limits his motor skills. He falls, Harper sees his chance and jumps on him. Harper puts a hand to John's mouth, giving John the opportunity to bite him and throw him off."

Sherlock looked around at the yarders, the majority of which had their jaws wide open and their eyes widened. Sherlock scoffed at the simple, unintelligent minds. "Well, it is quite obvious, isn't it?" Lestrade grinned at Sherlock's enormous ego. The only consulting detective rolled his eyes. Sherlock was still looking around at hints that would lead to his best friend, but it wasn't much to go on. There was something he was missing.

"Did you hear anything that happened, anything that was said?" Sherlock turned to Donovan then, since she had gotten there first. She paled slightly at the question, knowing something that the rest hadn't.

"It's a bit… personal. I don't know if John would want me to say anything, freak." Sherlock had never seen Donovan look so apprehensive and it shocked him so much that he ignored the 'nickname'. Sally ended up explaining that she overheard Harper telling John to keep quiet, and when John ran, she heard Harper calling John a coward.

Sherlock glanced around one last time before whispering, "Rape, but why was he so quick to run? That isn't like John." The consulting detective looked around at all the faces of the yarders until he came up with the obvious-why-the-bloodyhell-did-I-not-think-of-it-before answer.

"Fucking hell, Lestrade! Why did you let him run off?!"

And with that Sherlock Holmes was running in the direction that John had, pulling out his phone to dial his brother's number.

How could he? How could he not fucking notice? He was the world's only consulting detective and he couldn't bloody well spot symptoms of abuse from the person that was living in his space every day? The person that was his best friend, the person who mattered to Sherlock more than anyone. How could he not notice the signs that were there? And now that he knew what happened to John, the signs only got more and more obvious.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Honestly, how absolutely ignorant of blatant signs could he be? The fact that he missed this, actually missed this bit of information, made Sherlock want to bash his head into the nearest wall.

Really, how could he?

John was good at hiding things that he didn't want anyone to know. John didn't want him to know, that's how he missed it. And this man; Sylvester Harper, was it? Had tried to rape John, had made John face things that he had tried to lock away. If the bastard weren't dead already, Sherlock would've sliced his cock in half, split it straight down the damn middle.

Sherlock followed John's trail all the way to the other side of town and back, John had tried to flee as far away as he could, but seemed to have calmed down enough to think rationally and turn back. Eventually the trail went cold and Sherlock was so overcome by emotions that he couldn't think, couldn't possibly think of where John would go now. Mycroft had said he kept moving, not slowing down, and declining Mycroft's attempts to get him in a car.

His mobile was ringing, probably Mycroft. He hadn't been much help thus far, and Sherlock was losing patience with his brother. "Have you found him, Mycroft? Please, tell me you've found him." His brother was quiet for a moment; Sherlock had no time for his dramatics.

"John Watson is perfectly safe, my dear brother. Go on home, rest." It wasn't enough information to get Sherlock to stop; Sherlock wouldn't stop until he found John. They both knew that. He heard a frustrated sigh come from the other end of the line. "He is safe; he went to visit his parents."

No, John wasn't safe and he wouldn't be considered "safe" in Sherlock's mind palace until he saw him with his own eyes. He immediately hung up the phone, thinking back to when John had actually told him about his parents, he hadn't said very much. His mother was kind, beautiful, and could light up any room she walked into. John had said the fire in her eyes was fierce, but it eventually went a bit dim. John had left to be shipped off overseas; he had been informed of his mother's passing about a year later. John had never said anything of his father; his eyes had turned cold when Sherlock asked of him. How odd. John wasn't going to visit his parents; his mother had passed away years ago. John was going to visit his father; James Watson.

Something instantly clicked in Sherlock's mind, and just like that, he had his phone out. Mycroft would know John's location, and he would tell him, he must.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm so sorry if this sucks, guys. Dx I tried though and this is the first fic I've ever finished, so that's a step in the right direction. Anyways, thank you much for reading. **

John was sitting there, as still as a statue. Everything around him was still. There was a ringing in his ears that he couldn't get rid of and red was everywhere. It was on his hands, his clothes, the floor of his childhood home, his father. He hadn't been expecting John, hadn't known that John would come after him eventually. His father had suffered, and John made sure it was painful enough for both James Watson and Harold Sylva.

After all of his running, after Sylva, and after brutally murdering his own father, John couldn't move. So, he sat and he waited. He knew Sherlock would come, knew he would see all this and finally know the truth. The consulting detective would be disgusted with him, demand that he pack his things and move from 221b. As John sits there in a pool of blood, he readies himself for the inevitable.

"John! John, are you here?" Sherlock stepped through the front door of the small home, it was crumbling apart, practically ready to be bulldozed. The silence that greeted him told him to prepare for the worst. There was no noise; he strained his ears trying to hear something, anything. "John Hamish Watson, are you here? You know how I loathe repeating myself." Sherlock took a hesitant step around the corner that led into the kitchen. There was John, blood, far too much blood. Beside John there was a body, clearly dead. Sherlock rushed to John's side, falling to his knees by him.

"Are you alright, John? Are you alright?" Sherlock was trying not to panic as he looked over John, none of this blood was his, but John was so still. He there was blood, drying on his skin, matting his hair down. "John, please. I need a response, say something, anything." He hadn't reached for John yet, afraid that his friend would see him as a threat. In the end, it was John that reached out for him, his bloody hands clinging to Sherlock like he was a lifeline.

"He's dead, Sherlock. They're both dead." There was no sorrow or regret in his tone, just relief. Sherlock had held onto John, he held on after Lestrade and some officers from Scotland Yard came bursting through the door, held on after they tried to pry them apart to question them. Sherlock wouldn't let go.

"Watson, did you… do this?" It was Anderson's voice, his disgusted, cold voice. It pounded against Sherlock's eardrums and assaulted his thoughts. Mycroft stepped into the house; officers scurried out of his way. "What happened, Sherlock? I must know. John could face imprisonment."

Sherlock laughed bitterly at that, because John wouldn't. This would be swept under the rug; it had to be for John's sake, for Sherlock's sanity. Sherlock explained what he knew, so slowly that even Anderson could understand. John had stayed with his face pressed in the crook of Sherlock's neck, his body shaking. "So, Sylvester Harper… How does he tie into all of this?" Lestrade looked at both Sherlock and John, scratching his head.

"John, I need you to tell me who Sylvester Harper is." Sherlock whispered softly. John hadn't moved from the crook of his neck, but whispered into it instead. "His name is Harold Sylva, he was a friend of James Watson. They both did things, horrible things, Sherlock." John started to whimper quietly. It was so quiet in the room that everyone heard it though.

James Watson and Harold Sylva were abusers, abused John, _his_ John. Sherlock's blood boiled at the thought as he looked over towards the corpse of John's father.


End file.
